


Ribs (That Cage the Heart)

by Inkly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Always a Different Gender, Fem!Sherlock, Gen, Rule 63, fem!john watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:39:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inkly/pseuds/Inkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aka: The one where Sherlock and John have always been a different gender, and nothing changes. Not really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ribs (That Cage the Heart)

**Author's Note:**

> Non Beta'd, but written after a friend and I joked about an Always a Different Gender AU. 
> 
> Took minor liberties on details and characterizations since I'm not that into the BBC Sherlock. 
> 
> Sebastian is still named Sebastion because why not.

: Bullet :

A roommate usually doesn’t come with a night of running through the streets of London, chasing after said flat mate. But Shirley is far from usual, Joan learns by the end of the night. Dragging their flat mate out to look at a body is not what one would usually do as a pass time, but here they are: running and ducking through an alleyway to cut off a taxi.

Later on, while Joan is running through an empty building desperately looking for Shirley, flying through doors and over desks she almost screams when she reaches the end of the building. There is no tall woman in a black trench coat waiting for her here. There is nothing. It is empty and it echoes all of her breaths; Joan can hardly contain her panic until she looks out the window and sees Shirley sitting with the cab driver across her.

All she can think about is death and the next thing she knows she has her pistol out. Aiming with deadly precision she breathes out, eyes hard and calculating, and she pulls the trigger. There’s a pop and Joan watches as glass shatters and the old woman drops like a stone to the ground.

It only takes a second for her to realize what she's just done. By the time Shirley can look over, she's on the floor herself, grasping her face and trying to get a grip on herself. She's barely known this woman, and she's killed someone for her. She's a former British Army doctor and she's been home barely a few months, and yet her grip on her pistol is still tight. The rush of adrenaline feels so good; Joan doesn't get to think about why.

Glass crunches under Shirley's feet when she walks over to the broken window. She's slightly shocked by the bullet that was inches from her head (not that she'll admit it) and she already knows that she not has a few moments to get answers from the cabbie. The dark hair woman walks away right over the cabbie, after she gets a name out of her, and the blood puddle growing on the floor with little regard.

When she exists, she's not impressed by the shock blanket that gets dropped over her shoulders (really, what would a blanket even do?) and doesn't really pay attention to anything going on. When Lestrade questions her about the shooting, she doesn't realize it was Joan until a pale jumper flashes in her field of view. All she think of is the short doctor with a strong moral code and ignores the tiny bubble of happiness when she sees Joan waiting for her awkwardly.

She walks away from Lestrade, waving off everything she's just deduced, focused on her flat mate. Lestrade calls out for her to come back, brows furrowed and confusion plainly resting on her facial expression, Shirley just shakes the blanket that's still on her shoulders. She yells back the she’s in shock and that's that.

“Good shot,” she murmurs quietly, balefully watching police officers around them. Joan stiffens next to her, clearing her throat nervously, and Shirley notes that the blonde won't look at her.

“Ah. Hm. Yes, yes must’ve been…,” Joan glances around before finishing her sentence clearly uncomfortable, “through that window.”

“Well, you'd know. Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers.” Shirley whispers with a quick glance at Joan's hands.

“I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case. Are you alright?” She can't quite keep a hair of worry out of voice, and luckily Joan doesn't say anything about it if she notices.

Joan snorts, crossing her arms, “Yes, course I'm alright.”

With a twinge of amusement Shirley raises an eyebrow, “Well you have just killed a woman.”

That gives Joan pause, and she's quiet for a second before answering.

“Yes I…,” the blonde woman clears her throat again. “That's true, isn't it? But she wasn't a very nice woman, was she?”

And the next thing they know, they're trying not to laugh at a crime scene while they're talking about how bad of a cabbie the old woman was. After they manage to smother their laughter Joan asks if the consulting detective had really planned on taking the pill.

Blue eyes look at her while Joan asks her, “That's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life to prove you're clever.”

Pink lips purse shut as Joan waits for an answer, and Shirley wonders if she's more perceptive than even herself and she can't stop herself from asking, “Why would I do that?”

Answering a question with another question is hardly below her. She barely expects Joan to answer, but she grows quiet when the blonde woman just laughs lightly and says, “Cause you're an idiot” affectionately.

When Shirley offers dinner she decides that it's been a good night with an interesting case. She tells herself that it doesn't have much to do with the ex army doctor next to her.

It's also the night when Mycroft officially says that she'll stop spying on Shirley, but she doesn't trust her sister. If anything surveillance has only been increased. When they get home she spends the night searching for bugs and destroys six by dipping them in acid while Joan tries to sleep in her room. Shirley is sure that more will quickly replace the ruined bugs, and just stares out the window until it turns dark out. She doesn't move much from her position except to get her violin to pluck at the strings softly. Shirley doesn't even try to lay down until it's past the darkness of night and the beginning of the sun rising lightens the sky by several shades.

And when she does finally lay down, she can't stop thinking about spider cracked windows and one bullet casing in a wall.

She doesn't sleep that night.

* * *

 

 

: Adjustments :

Shirley Holmes is by no means a short lady. Joan isn't sure how tall the woman is exactly, but she is tall enough to spill off of the couch in the living room. Sometimes waves of charcoal seep off the couch, and other times pale feet will dangle over the edge. The only thing that is more or less constant with Shirley is that when she's on the couch, there are patches slapped onto her arm. Sometimes more, sometimes less.

One thing that takes Joan a while to get used to, is that Shirley forgets to put on a shirt sometimes when she's thinking too hard. Ordinarily it wouldn't be a problem if she had been living alone, but now she isn't.

It takes Joan a while to get used to the fact that she might get flashed whenever she opens the door. According to Shirley, no top almost always meant no bra by sheer association.

“ _Dear lord_ Shirley, put on some clothes!”

Shirley hums from the couch, eyes closed and seemingly content with everything in the universe. She doesn't even make an attempt to shift or cover up.

“Yes, you’re home now. Joan, I need you to get me 24 leeches, don't ask why now. It's for a case.” Shirley says instead, ignoring the doctor that just slammed the door shut.

The shorter woman looks cross, not that Shirley would notice with her eyes closed, and sets down a bag full of food.

Ignoring the comment of _leeches_ of all things she just scolds her friend, “What if Mr. Hudson had come in?”

The consulting detective finally opens her eyes, but only to look boredly at the woman in the kitchen. The noise she makes is one of annoyance. Joan knows better than to listen to it.

“Oh please, Mr. Hudson doesn't care. Besides, he's too busy watching his shows to even bother to come up unless to offer a cuppa.”

“Aren't you getting cold?” Joan asks instead, busying herself with putting the food away. When she walks past the cabinets she grabs a kettle and sets it on the stove. Shirley is like a cat. If no one feeds her, she won’t eat at all. Joan wonders how she even managed to sprout up so tall in the first place.

Shirley grunts, and puts her arms down. Joan takes it as a means to gesture at the blue robe she has on, but ignores it. Shirley is the most brilliant person shes ever met, but she is still the same person that hides cigs in a shoe of all things. Honestly.

Joan shoves some frozen food into the oven and waits until the kettle screams to get a chance to pry Shirley off that couch. The lack of dishes confirm that the black haired woman didn’t eat, maybe even didn’t drink anything all day.

When there’s some semblance of a meal Joan calls Shirley over, and predictably she just rolls over.

“Fine, if you want to be that way. I’m going to my room, then I’m going to run out again real quick. If you want to eat the food will be here.”

And with that she rests the food on the portion of kitchen table that is empty and leaves.

By the time she comes back from her run to the pharmacy the plate is empty and the mug is drained.

* * *

 

 

: Bruises :

 

Lestrade finds them leaning against the bricks of some building in the cold of the twilight. Their laughter is shallow and raw, and Joan has her head in her hand. Puffs of grey breath dance and evaporate in the chilled air, pale hands colored blue and purple, the smell of the river heavy in the atmosphere.

Their hands are curled together in a tangle between them, metal glinting on their wrists. Shirley’s wrist is such so pale and thin and-

Lestrade forgets sometimes that Shirley is actually so young. Younger than her, older than many, but still the kid that dragged herself into the precinct high as hell and telling them that they were _obtuse, so obtuse how can you not **see**?_ Joan is good for Shirley, really she is, but she’s still a long way from alright.

Together they’re a storm though, and this is just proof. Shirley isn’t hurt, at least from where she can tell. When Joan rolls her head back to rest against the brick wall Lestrade hisses in sympathy. One of the former soldiers eyes is swollen shut by a black eye, and her chin is a light purple.

The consulting detective and army doctor are laughing though. They’re smiling and laughing, never mind that they just ran for a mile or two from a brawl. A brawl that Joan won, but a brawl still. This isn’t the first time and it won’t be the last time. Joan fights too much too often whenever they have a case that could possibly resort to getting physical.

Lestrade shakes her head, gives Shirley a once over, wonders what they were thinking, and then sighs. At least Joan made sure that Shirley didn’t get beat up badly.

“What am I going to do with you two?” Lestrade asks, and the two numbskulls in front of her burst into a fresh round of laughter.

* * *

 

: Flaws :

Not even five minutes after meeting Sebastian Wilkes, and Joan wishes she could punch her in that snobbish face. Joan really hopes that Wilkes just doesn’t notice the faint quiver in Shirley’s hands. The black haired woman is staring, staring, staring at that face looking at Shirley like sone sort of strange memory that she wished she never remembered.

After that case is finished, Joan takes grim satisfaction in the surprised look that Wilkes gives Shirley. It’s a good thing that they didn’t meet when Joan was much younger. When she was raw, angry, and more susceptible to acting on impulse. She feels bad that Shirley had to go to University with that woman. Shirley is a lot of things, but she is also a good woman. She’s a lot better than the other black haired lady.

After they leave, Joan takes them to a small café and Shirley looks down at her with a little bit of puzzlement in her face. Joan rolls up her jumper sleeve, and begins talking, carefully examining the thin scars on her arm.

They zig zag and splay across her forearm like a sprawling poem of flowery, delicate words that hide something much more dangerous, dark, and a quiet danger. Their pronunciation is of an animal backed into a corner, of desperation, survival. Shirley likes her anyway, with the scars and bruises, or at least she hopes so.

Sometimes when it’s not an exciting case, Shirley will explain how her deductions work, and will try to get Joan to try her hand at deductions.

Shirley is quiet at the end of it, but Joan wonders when the last time someone told her that she was brilliant was. From before she came along at least.

The consulting detective gives her one of her tight lipped smiles and that’s the end of it.

That night they dig out some bugs that Mycroft placed, and dips them in acid to watch them melt together. Its become some sort of tradition that happens after particularly hard days. For all the problems and issues that Shirley might have, Joan loves her just the same. Just like how Shirley accepts Joan, as a small constant in her life.

* * *

 

: Secret :

She respects Donovan, really she does. Sal is just doing his job, even though he might have to be a little bit of a jerk a out it. But he does a good job.

Anderson is another story though, and Joan headbutts her one night under the pretext that she was confused and just trying to defend herself. Shirley snorts and laughs, and curls an arm around Joan’s shoulders and leans around her. She tells Lestrade that Joan must be in shock, jeez, where is a shock blanket when you need it?

* * *

 

: Salt :

Jane Moriarty tears them apart, chews them up, and spits them out. Nothing is the same ever again, and Joan curses whatever higher power there is for letting that evil woman for existing.

There’s a crowd around Shirley and Joan can’t breathe. She can’t breathe, and this isn’t real- _can’t be real_. They weren’t supposed to end like this.

Joan gasps and tries to push past the reaching hands separating her from Sherlock, tries to speak, but all she can say is, “That’s my friend, please.”

All she gets to do is brush her hands over blood soaked hair before she gets pulled away.

She sits down when the police try to ask her questions, and she stares down at her hands –at the red on them- in shock.


End file.
